


From Despair To Where

by LusidDreamer



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, Furry, Love/Hate, M/M, References to Depression, Robot Sex, Suicide mention, Undertail, Verbal Abuse, monster banging in general, probable robovag and robodick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LusidDreamer/pseuds/LusidDreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burgerpants' life is a hilarious failure.<br/>His dreams of working with Mettaton didn't quite work out as he'd planned, and though he technically does so it's a dead-end job in customer service hell. Mettaton himself is the boss of nightmares, with an apparent vendetta against his employee's confidence and self-worth.<br/>Sick of everything, he takes a chance on a competition that could well turn the tide on his idol-turned-enemy, and put him in the hot seat for a change.<br/>... Or it could just ruin his life even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Code

A cocktail of hatred, envy and sick longing was the only way he could describe what churned around in his stomach as he stared at the TV in a boredom-induced stupor. It might have just been the starfait that'd passed its sell-by date, given it consisted pretty much of nondescript, saccharine sludge and literal repurposed _garbage_ (free lunch, he guessed) ... but more likely than not, it was probably the fact he couldn't take his eyes away from the guy who grinned dazzlingly from the set 24/7. That and how strategically it had been placed to _always_ be in plain sight, no matter where the sole employee of this fast food joint stood, and no matter how much he wanted to _claw his own eyes out_ in despair.

The guy posing and parading around on the set was none other than his boss... an evil, obnoxious hunk of junk metal who had a monopoly on all media in the Underground, and also on all entertainment and hospitality facilities in Hotland. From what he'd seen of human video tapes, this region had pretty much become the monsters' answer to _'Hollywood'_ , except with a demented robot ruling over it all, who nobody seemed to know where the fuck he even came from. From what he'd heard he literally just wheeled into the public eye one day... that was when he was just a little kid, with his whole life ahead of him...

Sure, he had abundant charisma, wit and talent, enough that the young cat-like monster was once inspired to pursue acting himself—which he _did_ , all through school doing productions and going to drama class in fact, he'd dreamed of one day working with his idol: _Mettaton_.

He'd never forget the day his _hell_ began.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was in eleventh grade. He'd flunked most of his classes (fallen into a bad crowd, gotten himself a little drug habit, nothing **too** terrible) but excelled in Drama, of course. Straight A's in that, and in Film and Media. Who needed heavyweight academia when they were going to be a famous actor, anyway? Or so he thought, with confidence overflowing as he made his way to a long-anticipate audition, which was to be judged by **Mettaton himself!** Finally, a chance to show his talent off to his hero!_

_When he was called, an agent wished him luck as he led him out onto a well-lit stage. It was so bright, in fact, that he struggled to see who was seated in the audience, though he could just make out a glowing, fuchsia heart and another pinprick of the same hue somewhere above that. Oh **god** , he'd heard gossip and read interviews about this; Mettaton had a brand new body, but it was apparently incomplete, not ready for a TV debut. And he was going to get to see it **in person??** Only the social elite living in that part of Hotland bordering the Core had the honour of seeing Mettaton anyway, much less..._

_Oh god, this was **too** exciting. But he managed to give his name when the robotic voice asked it of him (fuck, it sounded so... pretty, compared to what he was used to on TV), and he performed his heart out, feeling hot and breathless and almost sick with adrenaline by the time he'd recited his piece. _

_For a while, he got no response—no 'thank you', no 'next'. **Nothing**. He shielded his eyes with a shaking paw._

_"Um... Mister Mettaton?" He chanced to ask into the pink spotted gloom behind blinding lights. " **Sir?** "_

_"I **heard** you, darling," came the sugary drawl again, and before he knew it, Mettaton himself waltzed up the stairs leading onto the stage. And **fuck** , was he beautiful! All curves and leg and pouting lips, a rare humanoid quite similar to himself—but less fur, more metal. The star struck teen couldn't tear his eyes away from what he'd only seen speculated in drawings thus far, but he at least managed to look up and meet the eyes of Hotland's superstar, his own shining with desperate hope._

_"I'm **so sorry** to say it, but you're not exactly what we're looking for, uhm..." said the robot with plastic pity in his tone, reflected in his toothy smile. He puzzled for a moment while the monster before him felt his world shatter, and tried desperately not to vomit all over the stage._

_"... **Whatever** your name was. Poor thing, perhaps **flipping burgers** would be more suited to a talentless worm like you, hmm? I'm sure we can arrange **something**...."_

 

* * *

 

The chiming sound of one of Mettaton's most iconic leitmotifs dragged the fry cook out of that memory's particular hell, and back into that of his current reality. It was testament to how thoroughly this shitty job--and his _shitty boss_ especially—had crushed his soul, the way his mouth instantly stretched into that customer service grimace while frantically binning the empty starfait cup that'd been gradually gathering ash over the course of this particularly painful working day.

Of course it was Mettaton, sashaying the way he had the day he'd casually strangled the life out of his hopes and dreams. But at least he'd gotten a job out of it _(!)_ He should be grateful _(!!!)_

" _Burgerpaaaants~_ " he sang sweetly, as though greeting his spouse after a long day's work.

 

 _Fuck fuck fucking **fuck**_ , he hated that name. That's what _everyone_ called him now.

 

But even as he seethed, seeing Mettaton move in person filled him with a more potent brand of the sickly feeling than he got watching the robot on TV. _MTT Brand nausea and sexual frustration... his favourite..._

"My name is Danny, sir..." he said pointlessly, his monotone voice standing no chance against auto tuned hums. It was more to remind himself than anything.

Mettaton, if he heard at all, ignored him and (much to the unhappy puffing of his sole employee's tail) sat on the counter with a nimble hop while swinging a leg clean over his cowering head in the same motion. Strangely plush-looking thighs landed splayed open with Danny standing awkwardly in between them, and although the cat-like monster knew he was being roped into another of Mettaton's nasty little _mind games_ he couldn't resist eyeing up the oil-black, shiny latex that hugged every curve of his legs—and the space in between them... whatever was concealed there...

Mettaton, on the other hand, started preening his uniform, straightening out his grease-stained t-shirt here and there and adjusting the ridiculous little hat he'd sadistically chosen as part of MTT Burger's _'brand identity, darling!'._

" _Whenever_ will you start to respect what you have here, **_Burgerpants_**?" came his computerised voice, sounding sweet and icy in the very same purr of that cruel little nickname. "You always look _so_... how do I put it... **_disgusting~_** "

"Sorry, boss..."

Danny hated that he was so submissive to the robot, but there was nothing he could say. If he lost this job, he'd be screwed.

So he had to try not to grimace as a white-gloved finger caressed teasingly up the underside of his chin, forcing him to look at that one exposed, bubblegum-pink eye. Behind that _'fuck me'_ expression and the perfect, silken sweep of hair, Danny wouldn't be surprised if Mettaton was fugly as all sin. Danny had been one of the first to see the debut of his shiny new porn star body, and in truth the rest of the world rarely did even now (other than from behind the veil of a TV screen) but as far as he was concerned seeing it now—although **maddeningly arousing** to him—didn't feel like at all like a special privilege.

That didn't stop him from coveting his boss, his unattainable idol—scratch that, his _worst fucking enemy_ , the one who wrecked his life—and Mettaton _knew_ it.

"Just **_try_** not to be so terrible at your job, _okay sweetheart?_ " He crooned having leaned in tantalisingly close, making Danny's fur stand up on the back of his neck.

" _Yes, boss..._ "

Mettaton, satisfied in his daily assertion of power, slipped off the counter and shoved his employee aside, making his way out back and toward his office with elegant strides—where, in Danny's opinion, no form of real management ever took place. It was always on _him_ to do all the books, the stock count, all that boring shit he didn't get paid nearly enough to do.

But again, he had no choice. Pretty much all the jobs going around these parts (the ones Danny had the skillset for, anyway) had that fucking robot at the top of the food chain.

**_Hah._ **

_Oh well._ At least Mettaton hadn't found the stubbed out blunts.

 

* * *

 

His shift dragged slowly and painfully to a finish with no further sighting of his boss. Not that he cared to check if he was still in the office or anything, since he'd probably left through the back door after like, ten minutes of _pretending_ he had important stuff to do—which normally entailed watching the live feed for any petty mistakes to rip Danny a new one over.

It meant no more smoking at the counter for the rest of the day, but it was better than a chance of having to see Mettaton again.

 

The moment he got to lower the shutters was always so satisfying. Sometimes, if he deluded himself enough, he could even pretend it was a curtain dropping on another award winning performance of his... well, okay, _maybe_ on a day where his morale hadn't quite been so crushed.

Danny closed the lights to the main restaurant area and slouched over to the break room. It was more of a cloakroom, really, but only because that’s what it _actually was_. Why invest in a decent break room for one measly lowlife when you _could_ just shove a notice board and a rickety chair in along with the coats, the umbrellas left over by customers and the odd bit of cleaning equipment?

He grunted as he flopped into the chair and fumbled for the pre-rolled joint stashed in his jacket pocket—for those times when he _just needed a moment_. There were no cameras in here—he'd already checked thoroughly—and an air vent led straight on out to the Core-facing side of MTT Resort, which proved effective enough to clear away weed stink so long as he shut the door after leaving.

He always remembered... _mostly_...

 

As Danny let his head fall back against the wall with a small thump, he lit up and took a long draw.

 ** _Man_**... if he could go back to his past self, he'd definitely tell him to word _'I want to work with Mettaton when I'm older'_ differently.

After exhaling a thick cloud, he opened his eyes, and was greeted by a familiar poster tacked to the noticeboard. It was Mettaton, of course, captured in a tantalising lying down pose that highlighted all those killer curves amongst a ridiculous number of fluffy, heart-shaped pillows. Both gloved hands framed his perfect face, gripping his own hair a little with a sultry _'screw me'_ saturating his parted lips and heavy eyelids.

_Jesus, the number of times he'd rubbed one out over this picture was-- **wait**._

That white, heart-shaped thing wasn't _normally_ between his legs.

Danny stood and peered closer through his hazy vision. It was a sticky note, and scribed on it in beautiful, glittering pink cursive was a message that read:

 

_'Burgerpants,_

_Don't think I haven't noticed the STAINS on this poster, you filthy little animal._

_Do I need to personally educate you in good hygiene practices as well as uniform standards?_

_MTT'_

 

"My name **isn't Burgerpants** , stupid _bitch!_ " He shouted at the annoyingly gorgeous face that always mocked him. Snatching the note, he flipped it over and fumbled or a pen before scrawling in his own, less elaborate print:

 

_**'Fucking suck me'** _

Nah, he couldn't say _that_! He scratched it out.

_**'Bitch don't flatter yourse'** _

_Nope._ Scratched out.

_**'Sorry, sir. I'll try and aim better next time.'** _

 

_Haha, yeah. That'll do._

Danny stuck the note over the robot's stupid slutty face, muttering:

"Fucking asshole. I'd piss _right on you_ if I could. **PISS!** "

He'd probably regret the note later, when he wasn't high, but he quickly gathered his things and left before he could reconsider.

 

* * *

 

Danny lived just outside the outskirts of Hotland, away from the glitz and glamour of the Resort in what was technically classed as Waterfall. He didn't really like the heat too much anyway—plus, the further away from the palace and all that stuff, the cheaper it was to live. Waterfall had a pleasant enough temperature, and he'd managed to find himself a plot that wasn't too damp, so all in all it wasn't too bad.

At home, the life he led was almost agonisingly normal. He had a shower, he made himself dinner, he watched TV. Obviously, Mettaton was all over the few channels available, and Danny didn't have the luxury of a VCR to play the few tapes he'd managed to scavenge, but he'd long since accepted that he could never escape his boss's clutches.

Who was he kidding… as if he _really_ _wanted_ to…

Even though he hated his life and hated Mettaton for destroying it, he still couldn't remove him from that pedestal he'd always put him on. Every time the robot flashed a condescending look at him, or fussed over his uniform, or made it his business to make his working day hell... he sort of got a _thrill_ from it. The calculator body had been bad enough, but the new one just... it fucking _slayed_ him.

_Hell, if Mettaton decided to step on his dick with those incredible boots, he'd probably thank him…_

 

Speaking of his masochistic thirst, Danny couldn't resist looking up pictures of Mettaton on his phone once he'd slipped into bed beside his Mettaton body pillow. The posters of Mettaton on his wall were nice, but sometimes he needed a change of Mettaton. Tonight he wanted nude Mettaton, and you could find some pretty good drawn stuff online—especially since more and more fans had seen the _new build_ at exclusive VIP signings and the like. It didn't take much speculation to imagine what might lie beneath the sinfully tight latex; genitals, however, were a _tantalising_ mystery, and beneath the casing on his torso... who knew?? There were some intriguing theories about the 'heart' around the navel area, that that was his _soul_ , but it seemed crazy that he'd let it be so exposed. Besides, wasn’t it the wrong way round or something…

… Science was never a strong point for him.

 

Either way, the content _didn't disappoint_. Mettaton with his legs spread wide, greedily taking multiple cocks in his plump, synthetic lips and his ass, dripping glitter-glue goo all down his thighs. Mettaton with his face covered in spunk, mouth wide open and tongue lolling shamelessly out, begging for more. Mettaton all bound up in his own extendable arms, jerking off and fisting himself at the same time. It didn't matter _what_ Mettaton was packing—just so long as it was **_Mettaton_**.

_Bend over and take it, slut. Yeah, you're fucking gagging for my thick cock, aren't you? Now turn around so I can paint your stupid face. Yeah. Swallow it all, you dumb bitch._

As he furiously jacked himself to ecstasy with such filth racing through his mind, like he did each and every night, it was with a final whisper of Mettaton's name.

And, as always, once the afterglow ebbed and his heartbeat regulated, he considered just how _fucked_ his life had become.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Danny's Mettaton-shaped alarm clock woke him, bright (as the Underground could get, at least) and early, marking yet another day in the fast food nightmare that was his life. He pulled out from his closet an exact replica of the uniform he couldn't bring himself to wash yesterday, got dressed and combed the slightly longer fur between his ears until it stood in soft spikes (which actually looked kind of cute on him, in his opinion). At least he could look half decent going into work, until he had to put on his stupid fucking _hat_ again.

He didn't know why he had to open the shop so goddamn early. Anyone with enough money to actually buy the sparkly junk from this place would never need to be up this early to _begin_ with....

 

He hung up his jacket and backpack once he arrived, too sleepy to remember the note from the day before, then hurried back to clock in and open up. After the few regulars who always got their morning coffee _('made fabulous with MTT Brand glitter syrup, darling!')_ came and left, MTT Burger returned to its usual state—dead, just like Danny was inside.

Looked like another day of sneakily smoking blunts with the extractor fans on full and cursing Mettaton under his breath as he pranced about onscreen, being _ridiculously fucking hot_ as always. It was the same shit... fucking reruns of _Singalong With MTT_ , _Cooking With A Killer Robot_ , _MTT Runway_... but it didn’t matter, his eyes were reluctantly hungry as ever.

" _Fuck my life._.." he muttered, then switched it over to _'News Channel, with the Undergrounds most beloved anchor, Mettaton!'_

What a _fucking_ shock. He half-listened as the robot, dressed in the red suit that kind of comically strained over his more obviously robotic parts, blabbed on about this, that and the other... until a burst of dynamic animation exploded on screen, announcing some sort of prize draw. Probably a con... but he turned the TV up a little anyway.

 

_'BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES! YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE THIS, BUT...'_

Mettaton gave a theatrical sob, hand clutched to his chest (he didn't even _have_ a heart, for fuck's sake)

_'SOMETIMES... *hic*... EVEN THE MOST BELOVED STARS GET LONELY!! AND WE SHINE SO BRIGHT WE FIND IT SO, SO HARD TO GET CLOSE TO ANOTHER... SO, THAT'S WHYYYY!~'_

A cheerful ditty played as a flashing sign flew out of nowhere, illuminating a phone number.

_'I'VE DECIDED TO HOST A COMPETITION, WHERE THE PRIZE IS—YOU GUESSED IT, DARLINGS!--A ROMANTIC WEEKEND WITH YOURS TRULY!! ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS TEXT 'DATE' TO THIS LITTLE NUMBER, RIGHT HERE~. NETWORK ACCESS CHARGES WITH AN ADDITIONAL COST OF...'_

Wow, people were such suckers. A so-called 'romantic weekend' probably entailed a brief meet-up, a photo of the sucker standing awkwardly with Mettaton, who'd be  _pretending_ to give a shit as always, and a dramatic write-up for the magazines by his crew of ordained journalists and publicists. Some of the proceeds would go to schools... _yeah right_. As if Mettaton gave a flying, glittery **fuck** about ‘ _nurturing talent’_...

... Naturally, Danny was quick to snatch his phone up from the counter and text in anyway. Why the fuck not. It's not like he'd win, out of the hundreds of monsters undoubtedly hammering the line.

_'—AND PERHAPS YOU—YES! I MEAN YOU, DARLING!—COULD TURN OUT TO BE THE LOVE OF MY LONELY, INCREDIBLY TALENTED, SUPER RICH AND FAMOUS LIFE! GOOD LUCK, MY BEAUTIES!~'_

The announcement ended on that note, with Mettaton making flirty eye contact with the camera then blowing a kiss. After about a minute he got a text back with a unique code. The winner would be picked out of a hat at random, raffle-style, about an hour or so before he finished work.

Again, not that he had a chance—and, thanks to weed, he didn't have to think too hard about why he'd even _want_ one.

 

* * *

 

Another boring as hell shift rolled by. A couple of glamburgers sold, so Danny was covered in a fine dusting of glitter and probably had a couple of sequins stuck in his fur, but at least having something to clean up was better than doing nothing.

He switched back from Music to News about ten minutes before the results of that stupid contest were due to be announced—it'd probably be funny to hear whatever screaming girl won the big prize go _apeshit_ when they rang her number. Danny paused in his cleaning of the floor when the music from the earlier announcement played and he leaned on the mop for support, looking up at Mettaton who cooed in excitement for the results.

There were the usual tactics of suspense and filling time, suspenseful music, the painstaking reveal of each number of the six digit code belonging to one of these suckers—himself included.

_'SO WE HAVE SO FAR: THREE.... ONE.... ZERO.... SEVEN-’_

Hold on. Danny was _pretty damn sure_ his number had been three-one-something. _Fuck_. It **_couldn't_** be.

_'NINE....'_

Holy **_fuckballs_** there'd definitely been a nine in his code, too. _Fucking hell!!!_

 _'AND THAT'S A TWO, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!! SO LET'S GIVE THE NUMBER THAT RECEIVED_ THIS _CODE A QUICK CALL, SHALL WE?~'_

Mettaton on live TV lifted an old-fashioned style phone off the receiver, and—

**_BZZZZZT!!! BZZZZZT!!! BZZZZT!!!_ **

Danny practically leaped out of his skin and dive-bombed across the restaurant to where his cell vibrated angrily on the countertop, slipping and almost crashing headfirst into it as he lurched forward. He snatched the phone and hit _'answer'_....

…And the voice that greeted him on the other end made his tail puff up massively.

_"CONGRATULATIONS, SWEETHEART, YOU'RE THE LUCKY WINNER! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HAVE THE SURE TO BE GORGEOUS THREE-ONE-ZERO-SEVEN-NINE-TWO RIGHT HERE ON THE LINE!!!!"_

Mettaton beamed from the TV set, his contact with the camera so spot on that it hammered home to Danny the fact that Mettaton was seriously addressing _him_ right now. He tried to bite back the urge to scream in panic, his clawed hand balled into a fist in his mouth, until finally he took a deep breath and managed, shakily:

" _H-hi, Mettaton_..."

God, did he really sound so _weird_ over the phone??

 _"MY OH MY, DON'T YOU SOUND SIMPLY ADORABLE? IT SEEMS WE HAVE A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN FOR OUR WINNER—SORRY ABOUT IT, LADIES!!!"_ He winked saucily, completely unapologetic of course. _"CAN WE GET A NAME FROM YOU, SUGAR?"_

"I'm Bu, _uhhm_..." Fuck, he really _was_ losing his shit... about to use that _awful nickname_ on live TV... "... S-sorry. I'm Danny."

 _"WELL CONGRATULATIONS, DANNY."_ Trust Mettaton to be so self-centred he couldn't even put the voice and the name together... _"I'M SURE WE'LL HAVE A MAGICAL TIME! KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON YOUR PHONE, AND I'LL BE SEEING YOU THIS WEEKEND, DARLING..."_

 

And with that Mettaton wrapped up the end of the contest slot, with many an insincere apology to all those who were disappointed, and maybe next time, eh darlings?

Danny, meanwhile, had simply allowed the phone to hang up from the other end, honestly too preoccupied with the feeling he was about to vomit to really process what had just happened.

He was going on a _date._ With **_Mettaton_**. The guy he coveted and loathed and envied all at once. How the _fuck_ was he going to pull that off without, say, dying on the spot from sheer embarrassment? To make it worse, it was only Tuesday... which meant he'd probably encounter his boss at some point before the weekend.

It might be dramatic, but Danny couldn't help feeling he wouldn't survive this coming week.

 

* * *

 

Luckily, he made it to the end of his shift and home again without seeing Mettaton—obviously he'd been too busy all day doing all that pretend anchor bullshit—and Danny was more than desperate for the smoke as he collapsed heavily on his couch and lit up. This was going to be the _end_ of him, he was certain. When he’d wished almost daily for the sweet release of death, he’d hoped fate wouldn’t deliver something quite so cruel.

Nonetheless he attempted normal functions, eating and showering, but was so disturbed later on that thoughts of sleep evaded him completely. He probably wouldn't even be able to render himself comatose for the night with his usual Mettaton-fuelled orgasms.

While the evening was still young he received a text, from a number different to the one from the live studio earlier that day. He wasn't sure if it was Mettaton's or not, since their one or two instances of phone correspondence had been redirected from the office in MTT Burger, back when Danny had his old number, but it read in an all-too familiar tone of voice that just _had_ to be the robot:

 

_'Hello, Danny!_

_This is your lucky day, isn't it?_

_Meet me at MTT Resort this Friday night for our fabulous debut!_

_Yours, MTT xoxo'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who guesses why I've given him Danny as his real name gets a cookie :) thx for reading.


	2. Carrot & Stick

The evening following the prize draw for the _'Roboyfriend for a Weekend'_ contest (a massive hit, by the way—those ratings were simply through the _roof!_ ) a brief text exchange took place between Mettaton and the winner. It was unexpectedly bold of the mystery man to suggest a specific time to meet that Friday, but perhaps this monster's employer wasn't the type to let him leave work early.

There was simply no need for his tone to be so **blunt** though!

_'Hi. It'll need to be after 6, sorry.'_

Hopefully it was just one of those miscommunications so typical of text chatting; Mettaton absolutely despised uptight and prickly people, so he hoped this in no way reflected his date's real attitude. Nobody wanted to see doom and gloom on the stage of life! Regardless of any reservations he kept his reply sweet and cheerful. Surely they were just nervous to be meeting such a huge celebrity--the only true celebrity, in fact--and Mettaton couldn't exactly begrudge that.

_'No problem, darling. I look forward to it! Xx'_

There was no further reply after that, which was more than fine by him. As much as he certainly appreciated his fans, the robot felt no need to let any of them _too_ close. Feeling utterly untouchable had turned out to be quite the thrill for him after his fame skyrocketed—alongside being an object of desire and envy for the entire monster population—and while others might see it as quite a lonely existence, his public persona was something strangely detached from his real self. That part of him loved being set apart from (and more importantly _above_ ) everyone else.

Either way, he fully intended on living up to the persona during their date. It _was_ all a publicity stunt, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

During the average citizen's sleeping hours was one of the few times Mettaton was truly able to be alone, free of cameras and clamouring fans, during which he spent most of his time in the small but classy mansion he called home. It was located not far from the MTT Resort, and from the front balcony he could easily see the luminous signs and flashing lights of the hotel and its surrounding shops and buildings; MTT Studios could also be seen a little further beyond, and that was the hub of the recent influx of quality entertainment into everyday Underground life.

_All thanks to him, of course!_

And with it's expanding urban centre Hotland was starting to look just like Hollywood—or any other human city, for that matter. At this rate, integrating with them should be a breeze!

Self-congratulatory monologuing aside, Mettaton had no urgent errands and little need to let this body enter sleep mode (a suitable power outlet in every room of the house was the greatest idea ever); so the robotic star settled down in his pinkest, fluffiest robe, with the eternal heap of fan mail on the writing desk playing his companion for that night's performance. Signing with hearts and kisses everywhere after shining words of encouragement, and with _lots_ of exclamation points for good measure, Mettaton's replies easily kept him busy until dawn.

 

Let it never be said that he didn't truly care, deep down.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning found his schedule relatively free, for a change—besides a signing he had penned in more towards noon, but that was only two hours out of the whole day—and, since he was already up... Why not pay his least favourite employee a friendly visit?

 

Burgerpants could be seen slouching over the counter through the building’s glass facade when the owner of MTT Burger arrived, staring mindlessly up at the television as always. Normally that would be the aforementioned owner's cue to burst into the scene and ruin the cat's day... but for some reason Mettaton couldn't put his finger on, a more _underhanded_ approach sounded more appealing. So he entered through the back entrance, which lay some ways down one of the many alleyways branching off the resort plaza, and he was pleased to find it was early enough that the streets were fairly empty—thus screaming fan-free.

Mettaton strolled down the corridor and past the door that led to the kitchen—and by extension, the fast food restaurant itself—but when he passed the cloakroom-turned-staff room he halted as his sensory receptors picked up on a... rather _pungent_ smell.

 _That little worm!!_ He'd been smoking that awful grass on his property... _again!_

The robot opened the door and stepped into the tiny closet of a room, which was certainly too small for him to ever sit comfortably with legs so long— _not_ that he would ever want to, but he supposed it was at least suitable for Burgerpants, who was rather adept at being varying degrees of _squat_.

Sure enough, when Mettaton rummaged through his employee's jacket he found the half-smoked blunt that had obviously been stubbed out in there, probably minutes before his shift started; there was a smudgy, black smear of ash on the wall that was firm evidence of the crime. His lips screwed in distaste for the habit, and he dropped the butt before grinding it into the floor with his boot. It was in the next moment, as he'd turned towards the noticeboard, that he spotted the sticky note he'd left there the other day—more importantly, the way it covered his visage on the poster, and was now scrawled all over with decidedly _uglier_ writing than his own.

A smirk crept over his lips when he read the response, _including_ those that hadn't been very effectively scribbled out.

 _How very bold,_ he thought to himself as he turned and left.

 

* * *

 

 

 _'Burgerpants, darling~'_ purred Mettaton down the mic, watching with relish the small screens in his office as his employee nearly jumped out of his fur from several angles all at once. Okay, maybe he'd set the PA speaker volume just a little too high...

_No. Never too high._

Burgerpants looked fearfully at the nearest camera lens, and Mettaton's neon pink irises flicked to the corresponding screen in turn. Mustering his most intimidating yet seductive tone, the robot continued:

_'I want you here in my office... **right now**.'_

The LED sign above the door outside switched suddenly to _'be back soon'_ as the shutters lowered ominously, cutting off any chance for protest and sealing the fry cook’s fate.

He could practically see the Adam's apple bobbing in Burgerpants' futile attempts to swallow back his fear and panic, and it took him a few moments just to get moving. Soon enough though, that unmistakeable shuffle made its way from the screen connecting to the kitchen's camera over to the corridor's; then, after a predictable period of inactivity—which Mettaton _knew_ would be down to stressed fidgeting and muttering reassurances to himself under his breath, having rehearsed this scene _so many times_ now—came an uncertain knock.

 

"Come in!~" said the robot with his usual, sinister level of cheeriness, and when the door reluctantly cracked open it was with far too narrow a gap for Burgerpants to slither through... yet still he tried, and ended up half-in, half-out of the room.

As if _that_ would protect him.

With one hand he gestured over to a chair in front of him—which incidentally had one heeled boot resting on the back thereof while the robot sat casually on his desk. Burgerpants looked at the chair as though it was rigged to explode, then back up at his boss, but only a few seconds of enduring the glower made him rethink his hesitation with an unintelligible stream of _'oh... right... yeah... ok then'._

The usual **fussing**.

Closing the door behind him—he'd learned to do that much, at least—the cat-like monster waited pointlessly in case Mettaton deigned to move his boot before muttering another subdued _'oh... okay'_ and sitting rigidly down.

 

It was clear how uncomfortably aware Burgerpants was that, if only he were to look up, he’d have an _impossibly perfect_ view of the robot's mile-long legs—made all the more irresistible to the eye by the patent pink boots that hugged every curve to around halfway up his plush thighs—but he was trying his damnedest to keep his eyes trained on his own lap.

"I _know_ you want to look, **_Burgerpants_** ," he sneered, leaning back to further show off his body and hooking his leg around the back of the chair in order to drag it just that little bit closer. Crumbling as soon as he was permitted, the cat's hazel eyes flitted hungrily over his every tantalisingly displayed feature before settling with stunned disbelief between his thighs. Granted, Mettaton pulled his employee closer knowing fine well the eyeful he would get. Those latex pants, which were basically a _second skin_ they were so tight, really did outline **everything**.

"Oh **_dear~_** " he said lowly, breathily despite having none, his one visible eye's iris softening to a dusky pink as it focused pointedly on the slight stirring in Burgerpants' jeans. "You'd best not _spill anywhere you shouldn't_ , my dear..."

"F- _fuck!!_ " Groaned the other in abject humiliation, and tugged the hem of his shirt down. Mettaton giggled faux-coyly at the sheer futility of it.

"Do you **like** what you see, _Burgerpants_?" The trembling and gawking answered his question perfectly before he'd even asked—not that he was intending on getting any sort of verbal response anyway. " _Of course you do_. That's why I called you here in the first place."

Burgerpants' expression twisted in slight confusion.

" _Wait_... what d'you-- _Agh_! F- ** _FUCK!_**!" He spluttered as Mettaton suddenly lifted his leg then brought his platform soled boot down on the visible bulge—pressing firmly, but not enough to cause any real damage ( _probably_ ). " _Sh- **shit**..!_ "

" _The **poster** , you insect_!!! _Your_ **_clever_** _little message??_ "

Burgerpants only gripped the seat of the chair with an expression torn between pain, fear, and arousal, his claws audibly scraping at the wood in desperation. Mettaton's foot pushed down a little harder, earning a panicked gurgle of a yelp.

" ** _W-wHOA_** , boss! _Please_ , c- _calm down!_ " Amber eyes implored pathetically, but Mettaton didn't let up, and glared down at him with the same wicked little smile he always wore when he tormented his employee thus. And on this particular occasion the smile was accented with a twinkle of the eyes that said _'this isn't some scary-realistic BDSM wet dream, bitch. This is **real**.'_

" _Maaaaaybe_ I will-" he replied in a sweet, sing-song voice. "- **IF** you tell me _just how much you want me_ ~."

" **Ugh** , oh... fuck. _Please_ , boss, don't do thi-" A twisting motion of the foot, as though Burgerpants’ dick was the joint he'd crushed into the floor earlier like the worthless trash it was, made the fry cook wisely reconsider with an agonised wince. "-Nggh! _Oh god oh god fuck fuck fuck_... **_ALRIGHT_** already!!! I-" He swallowed thickly. "- _I want you_. So **fucking** bad, okay??? I wanna touch you all over and... and bury my dick right inside you and fuck you _totally senseless_... I want it so much it-- **AGH**!--drives me _craz_ y _! Is **that** good enough??? Huh?_ "

Donning an expression of pure triumph, Mettaton's lips parted, bearing the shadow of a thoroughly evil grin. Finally he removed his boot from Burgerpants' crotch, eliciting a relieved but shuddering gasp from the poor thing, then stood up.

"That wasn't _so hard_ , was it?" the robot purred softly and moved closer until his powerful legs were astride the hapless monster in a wide stance. If only he could see the filthy little beast's horrified expression at having the object of his wildest fantasies dangling right in front of him, so close yet _so very_ unattainable…

 

With a firm grasp on the scruff of his employee’s neck, Mettaton pulled his face closer, until he could feel the press of muzzle through the thin fabric which was the only thing stopping him from being pretty much eaten out.

Mettaton knew fine well—and always had known, from the moment they met—how much Burgerpants coveted him. Both the original **and** the latest model. The proof was in his mouth opening with the softest of pleasured groans, the way his muscles noticeably melted like butter under his touch. Of course the sensation of warm, shaking breath (and the tip of a tongue that had no room to wander) against his own junk was titillating for Mettaton too, but only in a certain sense. The difference was that he had the _control_... which, after seeing that brazen note prior to this, he felt necessary to reiterate.

Carrot and stick, that's all. As if he'd _ever_ stoop to fucking such a repugnant little slug.

Taking things a step further, Mettaton slid his body downwards, fluid and sexy as a trained lap dancer though the upper hand was definitely his to enjoy. He straddled Burgerpants with a slow downward grind of his hips, to which the latter's paw-like hands shot up to grasp the soft, synthetic flesh of the robot's curvy hips with a strained mewl. But before thoughts of how very hard that bulge was (or how it also made him instantly wet) could take any form worth noticing, Mettaton abruptly seized both fur-coated wrists and twisted Burgerpants' arms back— _painfully_ , if the yelping was any indication.

"Nnnnnghhhh oh _god_ , fucking hell, why're you _doing_ this to me, man?" The cat wailed angrily—but despite looking and sounding pretty furious, it also sounded like he could start sobbing at any moment. Their faces were so close the glassy glaze across the monster's eyes was strikingly obvious.

_Served him right for touching what didn't belong to him._

"What the _fuck_ did I ever do to you, Mettaton??"

The robot smiled away several silent moments, simply _savouring_ a punishment well-doled, though he at least relinquished the pressure on Burgerpants' arms after a point. Even though his motions had ceased and they were both clothes, he could still feel the throbbing of hard cock pushing up against him, and his bubblegum gaze shot down briefly before meeting the other's with mocking delight.

" _Disgusting_ ~" Mettaton said abruptly and, without further elaboration, stood up with effortless grace.

"Uh, _sorry_ but, _seriously what the fuck_... **_why_**..."

"I _just_ want you to do your job properly," the robot cut in with a light shrug, "and for you to stop doing things like _smoking_ _and making smart comments on company time_. You're neither smart **nor** funny, darling, and you'd **_better remember it_**."

His expression grew dark, and it was clear by Burgerpants' evasive glance at the floor that he dared not argue further.

"Now _get out of my office_. Can't you see there are waiting customers, you **vile** little thing?~"

Burgerpants' eyes snapped over to the screens as Mettaton gestured towards them, and sure enough there was a small line forming (as there had been for a good ten minutes by that point). It was beyond pleasing to know that he'd been the centre of attention to the extent that this dumb animal didn't even _realise_ he'd opened the shutters again—he’d done that before even letting the little wretch into his office!—and _now_ he got the extra pleasure of seeing Burgerpants scramble to his feet with much loud cursing as he attempted to hobble awkwardly away with a raging boner.

 

Truly, it was the cherry on top of the cake.

Certainly worth his own need for a good fucking, that's for certain.

 

* * *

 

 

Though it was only ever spoken of in hushed tones, Mettaton was known on occasion to allow a crew member--or even a lucky fan—to indulge him in activities of a _physical_ nature. In this particular instance it was a rather strapping monster of a serpentine appearance who'd been present at the signing; very tall, very broad and oh, so _rippling_!

It'd proven impossible for the robot not to give him heart eyes as he took the bestselling CD from his large hands and marked it with his elegant autograph; all it took was an extra scrap of paper—the small script instructing the stranger to hang about after the end of the event—for him to wind up sprawled on his desk back at MTT Burger (the only private place he could get to both quickly and unseen at such short notice) while clawed hands ravenously tore open his leg coverings.

"Oooohhhhh, oh _darling_! Oh, **_yes!~_** " the robot cried musically as his handsome fan's long jaw unhinged to clamp over his entire groin and ass, allowing a thick, sinewy tongue to force its way inside of his arousal-slick hole. He squirmed in delight, the pleasure causing his synthesised voice to glitch and skip in the midst of his pleasured moans.

The monster's teeth were sharp and pressed into him—not enough to break his resilient 'skin', but enough for the sensitive receptors there to pick up on a _deliciously_ subtle stinging sensation that drove him wild. Mettaton whimpered in disappointment when the skilled tongue slid out of him, but purred in renewed bliss as it lapped at him from the back all the way to the front—over and _over_ and **_over_** —until the robot arched his back and writhed in his mounting ecstasy, legs open brazenly wide to get the most sensation possible as the orgasm reached its peak.

The _first_ one, that is.

He wanted to see what other special talents this impromptu partner had, and as the latter drew up to his full, towering height Mettaton pulled his knees up nearly to his chest, hands reaching around to grab his thighs and stretch his pink-dripping hole invitingly wider. The monster unbuttoned his pants and pulled out— ** _oh my!_** — _two_ huge, glistening, generously ridged cocks, which were eyed by the star with ravenous lust before his plush hips were seized and his expectant, needy body pulled roughly closer. It took several forceful thrusts and soul-shattering moans of euphoria before he was fully impaled, but the sensation of being stretched gradually wider and _wider,_ until he almost feared he'd be pushed over his limit...

 _Overwhelmingly_ beautiful.

The entire act from then on was a blur of sheer rapture, with Mettaton reaching climax many times and in so many positions he couldn't keep count. Once the two were finally spent, he insisted on a quick selfie— _‘to immortalise the amazing memory, darling, what if mine was somehow corrupted?’—_ then showed the monster the way out with a wink and a cutely blown kiss.

Of course, he had _other_ plans for the picture he took… but it was **_nice_** to seem sentimental.

 

* * *

 

 

After the day's events, Mettaton's body was exhausted. He had to flip his switch just to get himself home, though his obvious hurrying didn't seem to deter anyone from trying to grab his attention as he wheeled through MTT Resort. Of course he tried to oblige as many fans as he could with waves and sweet words, but in the end he flew for the last stretch and immediately plugged in once he'd made it back.

This body couldn't exactly **feel** the way the other one did—which was what made life all the richer since the Pandora's Box of physical sensations and pleasures had been opened to him—but even without his sense of touch, the memory of how good it'd felt to be ravaged stayed stuck in his abstract psyche.

Mettaton loved his original build, microwave or calculator or _whatever_ his fans endearingly likened it to, but since being able to truly _experience_ all things physical he'd become rather an addict. Once the kinks were all ironed out with the Ex model, he'd happily only revert back for certain shows... _or_ if he needed to defend himself.

However, it was increasingly difficult to get Alphys to just _focus_ on refining Ex that little bit more—it still had an _unfinished face_ , for crying out loud—rather than fawning over Undyne or watching endless anime or guzzling gallons of the instant noodle and soda slurry she subsisted on. Couldn't she _see_ how much he needed this? It was enough to put him off trying to be a good friend, sometimes... but Mettaton halted himself in that train of thought before it ventured anywhere too depressing.

He certainly didn't like to pay mind to notions that induced anything even _remotely_ akin to guilt.

In the end, his evening was mostly spent recharging and writing out more fan mail responses as per—in addition to maintaining his online communities and blogs—but in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but hypothesise about his date that weekend. In the buzz and excitement of filming the live prize draw he couldn't quite recollect what this _'Danny'_ sounded like, but after today’s events he definitely hoped he would be something like the monster he'd had fun with earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for reading! And if anyone's still confused about BP's real name being Danny, it's a reference to Cats Don't Dance. Because Mettaton as Darla Dimple is perfect???


End file.
